


Life In Death

by catastrophicmeltdown



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:54:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catastrophicmeltdown/pseuds/catastrophicmeltdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk meditates on death as he lies bleeding after an away mission gone wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life In Death

**Author's Note:**

> I am currently moving all of my fics to AO3. I only have two ST fics so far, but with summer break coming I hope to change that soon. 
> 
> At any rate, I hope you enjoy!

He tugged on his bonds, knowing it would do no good but needing a distraction from the pain. Cuts – most shallow, several quite deep – marked most of his body. The parts of his skin that weren't slashed to ribbons were covered in mottled bruises. With his hands behind his back and tied around the post, he didn't have a chance to do anything other than stress his wounds in his position, and he gave up on his ties.

He just thanked whatever beings were listening that what had been left of the away team had followed his orders and beamed back to the ship. Losing the two ensigns had been hard, and so had the torture he had endured, thanks to this violent culture, but it was worth it to know that his crew was safe. And they would remain safe, if Scotty and Spock had any say in it.

He shifted against his post, finding a position that did not aggravate the slices across his back quite as much. He figured, if he was going to die like this, he may as well make himself as comfortable as possible.

He knew he was going to die here. There was too much of his blood on the ground, and too much still leaking out of him.

He didn't fear it though.

Death.

The word that was almost a curse in many cultures, and that was thought of as one in the rest. The idea of not existing, of ceasing to be in this universe, had stymied braver men and women than him.

He was glad for what his mother had taught him. She had always said that there was nothing to fear in death, that to finally meet an end where there had been life was not a curse. It was merely a continuation of a cycle, a rightful end to being. He smiled as he thought of her.

Even the stars come to an end after they have served their purpose, she had said. Although she had always been quick to remind him not to quicken his time by being too careless, and remind him that a meaningless death was a sad thing, but that death after an unfulfilled life was a worse thing still.

The all-too-real reality of dying too young, before truly experiencing all that life had to offer, had always horrified and saddened his mother. When she heard of a child's death, of the death of people in the prime of their life who were too young and cocky and not yet tempered by experience, she had always silently grieved for what had been lost. A lifetime of knowledge and experience, she had told him one day when he had asked, gone. Lost to the sands of time.

He remembered asking her about dad, when he was still young enough to sit in her lap – at least as long as there was no-one watching. He had asked her if she grieved for what had been lost. She had answered him with complete honesty, saying that she did grieve for him and what he had lost the chance to see and experience and live through, but that she did not see his death as meaningless, as his choice to end his own cycle had given his eight hundred crewmen a chance to live through theirs.

Most people who had known him thought it was his father's death and his own defiance that had brought about his belief in there never being a no-win scenario. But the people who had also known Winona Kirk knew that it was her.

She was the reason that he didn't break down at her funeral. When they brought her home in her Starfleet-issue coffin, he had not wept.

Before she went into space, on the night she walked out of their lives – forever, though he didn't know it at the time – she had looked him in the eye, and told him that if she died on this mission, she had experienced everything that gave her life meaning. She had loved, she had lost, and she had experienced many things. She had passed on her knowledge to others, and had given others strength.

That was all she needed, she said. That was what she thought had given her life meaning. She then kissed him on the forehead, gave him one last hug, and walked away. She didn't look back.

He remembered the report of how she died. Her team had gotten caught between waring factions planet-side, and it was her sacrifice that had allowed the eight people on her team to live.

And so he had looked down at his mother, peaceful as she lay in her coffin, and only shed a single tear. He was grateful they had been orbiting a planet close enough to earth to allow her body to be buried here. His mother had always loved the oak tree in their backyard.

The one thing he would regret about dying here was Spock. He knew that Spock would grieve for him, but he also knew that Spock would know he thought of it as a death with meaning, and that he had not lived a meaningless life. As captain of the Enterprise, his beautiful Silver Lady, he had experienced much, and had shown and given strength to the over four hundred people on his crew. He had taught them new things, shown them new ways, and had been given the same in return. His senior crew became part of his family.

And Spock had shown him love.

They had danced around each other for ages, hovering over the precipice between love and mere existence. And then one night it had come to a head. They were orbiting an Earth colony, and Spock had ventured planet-side to restock on some personal necessities at the trading post while he worked on reports and kept an eye on the skeleton crew running the ship.

Spock had returned several hours later, just as he had finished his reports. He had been moving about the room, working out the kinks and putting away the many things that had somehow migrated around the room. Spock had stepped through the door, and he had caught the scent of something so enticing that he couldn't believe he was smelling it.

He whirled around to face Spock, and saw him with a tray that had a plate on it. A plate with apple pie. Non-replicated apple pie.

It's always the little things, isn't it?

The rest, as they say, is history. Oh, they fight and bicker like any other couple, but they still love each other through all the shit the universe has thrown at them.

He watches in fascination as his blood pools around his feet, collecting in the various hollows and divots around them. It makes an interesting contrast, the scarlet of his blood against the yellow dirt around his feet. A type of morbid beauty.

He tilts his head back and observes the now setting sun. A whole day has now passed since he was first tied to this post. The night had been chilled, and with the rising of the sun had come the torture. He had retreated into his own mind as Spock had taught him in his meditation lessons. He was glad he turned out to be more apt in this than in the neck pinch. There had been many occasions where he had needed time for himself, and meditation with Spock always calmed him. In this case, it had helped save his sanity.

The sun was now halfway below its horizon. He took stock of his condition, and estimated that he had, at most, until the sun fully set before he would succumb to his wounds. He doubted he would last that long.

Holding onto a small sliver of hope, he did the only thing that would allow him to last until nightfall. He closed his eyes and retreated once again into his mind.

* * *

His mind-scape was field after field of grasses, monotonous and comforting. He lay down and stared at the blue dome overhead. He would occasionally look at the edges of the fields, watching as a gray mist encroached on his fields on all sides, carrying with it the inevitability of death. He didn't move from his central position.

He was not afraid, but that didn't mean he was eager.

There was still a shred of hope in him, and until that shred withered away he would not simply walk into non-existence.

Jim lost all track of time, and the mist was mere feet away now. He had no idea how long it had been, whether it was now hours after sunset or mere minutes since he had closed his eyes. He didn't care.

That last shred of hope died as he stood and moved toward the inevitable. He stopped a mere foot away and looked at it. Swirls of gray danced around each other, in an almost celestial dance. He was surprised that this was how he thought of death. Then again, gray hadn't been one of his favorite colors. The dance, however, he could understand.

He paused, and felt something shift. Was that his body? Probably the natives moving the hunk of meat to somewhere better for them. He felt the shift again, but disregarded it and took another step. One more and he would be surrounded by the inevitable. The mind always was the last to go.

"Jim!"

He whirled around, not daring to believe what he heard. Spock wouldn't meld with him, not now when he was so far gone... would he?

"Jim!"

And like some sort of myth, Spock stepped from non-existence into the incredibly small piece of green that still existed. That small shred of hope he thought had died.

"Spock no, go back! If I die and you're melded to me –"

Spock grabbed him and pulled him forcefully away from the tendrils that had started to snake around him. He held him tightly, refusing to so much as let him shift in his hold.

He sighed and gave in, clutching Spock to him as well. It was obvious that to Spock, they would go together or not at all.

The gray swirled around them, dancing forward and then pulling back, but always a little closer each time. They were surrounded on all sides, and now the gray was on top of them, pushing in on them. The pressure increased, stronger now, stronger –

Gone.

It abruptly stopped and then slowly moved away, revealing dead grass in it's wake. But there was hope in the little green shoots working their way through the dead stalks.

He smiled up at Spock, gently pushing him away. "I'll see you on the other side."

Spock's lip twitched and his eyes beamed as he slowly disappeared.

* * *

"You were lucky, Jim. There was almost no organ damage, just a handful of broken bones and a shitload of lacerations. Once we closed enough of the wounds and got some blood into you it was easy going."

McCoy turned and gave a slightly softer glare than usual to Spock, who was occupying the bed next to him. Standing between life and death had drained him dangerously, and neither hell nor high water nor peeved Vulcans would have convinced McCoy to let Spock out of his sight. "But if it wasn't for Spock keeping you anchored with that Vulcan mumbo-jumbo mind shit, we would've lost you."

He ran his fingers through Jim's golden hair, trying to put them in some semblance of order. "Don't scare me like that again, kid."

Jim looked up into concerned – and loving, no matter how much he tried to hide it behind his gruff demeanor – hazel eyes and smiled reassuringly. "I'll try my best, Bones."

Bones scoffed, mumbled something he wasn't sure he wanted to know about, and checked both of their readouts before holing up in his office.

He turned and looked at Spock, who was still pale but definitely improving. He supposed he looked much the same. Spock caught his eye, and they shared an understanding.

Death was inevitable, and they'd both come to peace with that. But that didn't mean that they wouldn't try their damnedest to keep each other alive until their proper end.

One day, one or both of them will die. They would make damn sure there would be no question about whether or not they had lived a fulfilling life.

Their mothers would be proud.


End file.
